


The Spoken At The Edge Of The Unspoken

by PrefectMoony



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe, Athlete Alex, Fluff and Angst, M/M, They are both such idiots, Writer Henry, athlete henry, but we love them and they love each other and that's all that matters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrefectMoony/pseuds/PrefectMoony
Summary: Alex gets up abruptly, padding off to the bathroom and returns with a wet cloth and cleans them both off as adequately as possible. “You don’t like the game, not this way at least. You don’t like competing here.”“Don’t act as if you know that,” Henry says, bristling at the way Alex thinks he is privy to anything at all about him.Alex only glares. “I know enough.”“You know shite.”And there’s a thousand words going unspoken between them, passing from Alex’s eyes to Henry’s own. Memories of their time together within the past four years, the snippets of conversations they’ve had between the kisses and fucking. It’s like he always just wants to leave Henry breathless and furious. Like he doesn’t even care about how it makes tumultuous waves of regret wash over him every time Henry has to detach himself from him and all the light he brings into Henry’s world.—OR—Henry figuring out what it means to be happy, and falling in love with Alex on the way. There’s also sexy times.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 27
Kudos: 111
Collections: The Firstprince Secret Snowflake Exchange





	The Spoken At The Edge Of The Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cmere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmere/gifts).



> Tis the season my loves! This is a gift I wrote for  
> [My RWRB Server’s](https://discord.com/invite/25DZeU9) !!! winter exchange!
> 
> This is so late but I think I might’ve written and rewritten the first half five separate times until I came up with an idea lmfao, and that’s simply because this is a gift to the most ridiculously talented babe in the history of ever!!!!
> 
> [BETHANY](http://OMGCMERE.tumblr.com) !!! My love my babe my slaggy slag who slags!!! My most beautiful strumpet! I love you to the moon and back and around the galaxy endless times over! You are the most beautiful soul inside and out and I know I don’t say this enough, but you really really are one of my closest friends and one of the most important people in my world! I can’t believe that joining a fandom to a book I had read months prior meant that I got to meet a life long friend who I respect as a person, and author so much that I can’t stand it! You are the most gifted writer I know and I can’t believe you waste your time on me! This is just a pitiful gift from me to you for the season because I love you and I am just begging you to be soft on me okay lkafjsdkgjoiaefjslkgh
> 
> Endless and passionate thank yous go to my beautiful Betas as well!!!  
> [Meg](http://superpaperclip.tumblr.com) Thank you so fucking much for your input and grammar help and reassuring me that this isn’t total crap!!<3
> 
> And just a thousand million infinite thank yous go to my beautiful beautiful Em!! THANK YOU AND THANK YOU AND THANK YOU my WIFEY MY DEAR MY SUGARPLUM PRINCESS!!! Your help on this is absolutely invaluable! You made me feel so much better about what I wrote and helped so much with the grammar again because I’m such a illiterate whore! And your suggestions were brilliant and talking this out with you was just absolutely bloody amazing! And God I just love you! And I love you and I love you baby darling honey pie!
> 
> The title comes from a quote by Virginia Wolf <3
> 
> So some quick notes just to understand what’s going on. There’s really not much volleyball at all if I’m being honest, I’m just so dumb, so it’s mostly just an exploration of Henry’s character and his relationship with Alex. But just for some background knowledge.  
> •the FIVB is like an international volleyball federation of sorts to my best understanding.  
> •FIVB Championship happens two years after the olympics  
> •FIVB World Cup is a bit smaller and takes place the year before the olympics, and always in Japan.
> 
> Alright I think that’s all the information you need to read this, fingers crossed flkasdgjalskdfjawoiejgsdlghsdoifaj

“It is easier to say "fuck me harder" than to say "love me and only me"   
\- k.y robinson

.-

Tokyo, 2020

Henry’s always been a man of planning, of studying and plotting and needling. Nothing but a swot in Pez’s opinion but that doesn’t matter. Henry likes his timetables and five year objectives and being able to plot out point A to Point C using point B; he likes the tried and true, the regimented. Henry likes knowing his third step before he’s even made the first. He’s not like Beatrice for instance, who’s lovely and flighty and lively as all get out, but who’s never stayed in one place for too long, lest she disintegrate. She’d spent her University years between Prague and Rome thinking she’d like to be a well and proper artist, but then flounced off to Barcelona the moment she realized that still images were far too stale for her superfluous sensibilities, deciding with an assurance and ease that Henry’s never been able to affect. Henry has always envied her for wearing without even pondering it, that she’s meant to be a musician. That she’s ever so obviously meant to followed in the footsteps of female artists like Stevie Nicks or Nancy Spungen and whichever other tragic femme fatale caught her fancy that particular week. 

Henry’s not like that—has never been like that—so this peculiar little pattern he’s fallen into with the middle hitter of the rival team is honestly something out of bounds. But it’s also something neither of them have been able to quit. And that kind of scares Henry shitless, the not knowing, the way he hasn’t even weighed out the consequences or mapped out an end result. 

He walked into this typhoon with Alex with his eyes wide open, so this mess of emotions is completely his own doing.

.-

The night before the Olympics really began started off normally enough. 

Henry came along to the pub with Pez and the rest of his teammates, strolling as casually as possible to the table that the rest of their ragtag group of volleyball players from all over the globe had commandeered towards the back. He smiles as congenially as possible to the rest of them, but his eyes glaze over the lot, in search of a familiar head of dark curls and a megawatt grin that always makes his stomach tumble into ridiculous knots and his toes curl against his will. And he eventually finds him, at the bar ordering drinks with that bloke— the middle blocker of the American team, Liam. And Henry knows, he knows that they turned public with their short-winded romance nearly two entire months ago now, after his and Henry’s one last blow out, and he knows that they’re an item. That this Liam plonker has made Alex happy in ways that Henry simply could not. But that doesn’t make the ugly, heated jealousy he feels unfurl any less in his gut. That doesn’t make it so he doesn’t begin seeing red when Liam slides a hand against Alex’s perfectly rounded arse. And that doesn’t make Henry hate him any less. 

He kicks the leg of the table, causing Pez to frown with concern and Nora to tilt her head imperiously— radiating pure irritation at his moody outburst. And Henry should probably demure, should bow his head and apologize. But he can’t. He can’t stop staring at the picture they make and despising every bloody minute of it.

Eventually Alex looks up from the tray of pints he’s carrying back to the table, and his eyes catch on Henry’s own; there’s a medley of surprise and suspicion and something else in his gaze. Something like wanting, and it fills Henry up with a helium like hope, and he knows that he isn’t out the game quite yet.

Knows that he’ll see Alex later tonight in his suite and on his bed, Knows that soon they’ll lose themselves in a tornado of heady kisses and ripped off clothing and touches that scorch.  
and knowing that makes everything hurt just a bit less.

.-

Henry feels the way Alex’s nipples begin to pebble beneath his touch, knows that if he ducks down just so, with his teeth clamped around one while his right hand pinches the other and twists, that Alex’s breath will hitch up in that especially panting way, head swung back on the mattress and hips thrashing forwards, already needy for some friction. And maybe on another night, in another world, Henry would take his time, would tease and taunt and not give him what he so obviously, so desperately wants until he’s quite literally begging for it— gagging for Henry’s cock. But the thing is that it’s not another night, and it’s the same sodding world it’s always been, so Henry only bites down that bit harder before lapping up the abused nipple with his tongue, the same tongue that tracks down to Alex’s’s torso— savoring the salty taste of the dips and valleys of his stomach muscles before gliding against the V of his hips and helping divest him of his trousers and pants— hot breath skirting around Alex’s dick in that wanton way he knows always drives Alex mad. And maybe he’s a bit mad too because Henry just lies there for a moment, between the space of Alex’s legs, peering up at the debauched image before him, the image of Alex lying flushed and panting— one arm slung across his forehead and his free hand fisted in Henry’s tawny locks and he’s biting down on the lips Henry had just been kissing with hungry gusto. And it’s a forbidden thought, but Henry thinks he’s the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen, still stares as he licks down to his inner thigh where he’s got a small bluebonnet tattooed amongst the freckles. Henry traces it’s outlines and nips at it with perhaps too much heat but is reassured when he hears a choked out moan coming from Alex above him. And Henry can’t help but love the way he’s got him so pliant, so needy, so alert.

Gingerly, Henry sucks one of Alex’s balls into his mouth, pulling and lightly grazing it before abruptly pushing it out and taking the other in its place, repeating the action again and again, slow and thorough. He inwardly preens when Alex hisses a “Fuck you Fox,” as soon as the third set of switches is made. “Get to it, holy fuck.”

“Don’t act like you’re calling the shots,” Henry tells him mildly once dropping it out, a line of spit stretched out from Henry’s mouth to Alex’s skin as he smacks his side reprovingly and then dips back down to lick at the space between Alex’s bollocks and asshole, hopes that he’s sucking hard enough that it’ll leave a mark, wants Alex to be branded after Henry leaves.

“God fucking damn it,” Alex practically whines, trying to thrust forwards and is only stopped by Henry’s strong hands on either end of his waste, and going a fetching red when Henry pulls away to cluck at him.

“Blimey, you can’t let yourself enjoy a thing.”

“And you can’t ever just suck my cock without making a production of it,” Alex retorts in a voice that would be scathing if it weren’t so damn labored, and Henry can’t help but laugh breathily before he is abruptly shut up by Alex’s harsh mouth.

This is exactly what they said they wouldn’t do. 

It’s been nearly six months ago now, at the wake of Henry’s father’s funeral, half a world away. He had told Alex that this thing between them was never anything more than a good lay and decent conversation. And there was good reasoning behind the break between them, Henry’s sure, he could recite it now if Henry was able to think about it for longer than a moment at a time. But as it is, with Alex beneath him and their lips swallowing each other whole and bodies sliding up in this strange, writhing dance of theirs— well, to be frank, most of the blood ordinarily occupied for his mind is now coursing down to Henry’s cock, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. All Henry can do is take in the aroma of him, the heady scent of Alex’s arousal stuck in his nostrils and the sensation of his vengeful tongue that plunges into his mouth without permission before slamming him back down against the mattress and instructing him to continue.

“As you wish,” Henry goads, kissing the tip of his prick before inching back down to that same spot, biting lightly before he moves down to Alex’s arsehole, his finger already toying with the slightly wrinkled ring of skin there. He relishes the way that the opening flutters beneath his touch, how Alex literally groans when Henry first circles the entrance before dipping his tongue alongside his finger, tasting the sweat and need and it’s like music to his ears how Alex begins to fucking beg, “Please, please, please.” How he thrusts down to try and skewer himself using Henry’s finger and tongue and how Henry pulls back before he can.

Sometimes Henry thinks Alex might be some sort of drug, something damning and detrimental and so all-consuming that Henry doesn’t know he’s lost within him until they’re rutting up against each other like a pair of sodding mutts in heat. No, not a drug— that would be like calling Alex an itch he can never quite reach, when in fact they’ve done this enough times that Henry’s lost count. They’ve known one another for nearly half a decade now, and it’s really remarkable how thoroughly they are acquainted to each other’s pleasure points, while also being utterly, incredibly, devastatingly oblivious to one another’s actual desires and wants and prospects. They’ve only ever just been this, a couple of hollow sacks of skins and bones that fight and compete and fuck in that exact order and exact levels of intensity. All they are to one another is another sweat soaked body that gets them sated, relaxed enough for the next day in their respective matches— sometimes against one another.

But no. Not even that’s very fair, because that completely negates the fact that Alexander Claremont-Diaz is a fucking cyclone, a force of nature that’s all cutting words and cryptic grins and caustic touches that always leave a consolation of bruises on Henry’s alabaster skin. In his wake, Alex has only ever left Henry’s world in ruin. And it’s not even fair because no matter how forcefully Henry boarders up his walls, or how much he braces himself for the blows, Alex still leaves him defenseless and aching at the end of it all.

Henry hates it, hates him, hates everything if he’s being honest.

Maybe that’s why he’s less than gentle when he clamps a hand around Alex’s dick right then, squeezes before twisting and thrills in how Alex bucks up rapidly. Henry bends back down to circle the tip of his cock with his lips and sucks with all he has, sliding down slowly before detaching himself again and snorting at how Alex tosses his head back once more, exasperated as hell. 

“How long has it been since you’ve got a good fucking,” Henry asks, his voice not exactly kind, but not cruel either. “Don’t tell me Liam’s really so pathetic?”

“Don’t be fucking crude.”

“Bit impossible considering what we’re in the middle of doing, love.”

Alex glares down at him, completely flushed now, and Henry’s too distracted by watching the way the moonlight spills in his dark hair to see it when Alex twists so that his fully hard erection smacks him in the face, making Henry stagger back just slightly, cheek wet with his own saliva now. “Don’t fool yourself, this is adequate at best. Now fucking suck my cock like a good boy.”

A stun of something like indignation mixed with pure want spikes down his spine, and Henry only flips him off before swallowing him to the hilt, feeling Alex bottom out in his throat, hitting the back of it and gasping when he does.

They don’t fuck in that way during the week of competitions. That’s something that’s been true since the start of this entire, sorted affair. Neither of them want to end up waddling around on the court when they should be focused on the game, on the adrenaline of it all. So they keep the actual dicks up arses part of it all for the last night, and sometimes it’s a bit cruel and a bit vindictive, like two years ago, during the World Championship, when the UK had beat America in the semi finals and won the gold, making everyone rave that they were the practical winners for the Olympics. And it had been torrid and lustful and a bit wild. But tonight, the first night of the week, they are only permitted to do this. Though that doesn’t stop Henry from bringing back his spit soaked finger to slide into Alex’s entrance, massaging that secret place within him as Henry also gives him head that Alex would surely write home about.

He sucks him back down, and when Alex begins frantically chasing for release Henry only slackens his jaw, lets him fuck his throat to oblivion, fuck him raw. And it hurts only sorta, as Henry gets lost in the velvety, lovely taste of him, gets dazed when Alex tugs harshly on his hair so he can look at his face while he empties out within him, so he can watch Henry swallow and kiss up and down Alex’s overly stimulated length. And when they collapse beside each other on the mattress, they don’t say a word, are only panting and wrecked, and it’s not the first time Henry’s wanted to curl against him, to kiss Alex with all the ferocity he feels in his bones after these late night assignations.

But he doesn’t.

When he turns his head he sees Alex’s eyes staring down at their hands— more specifically towards their littlest fingers with an inch between them that feels like a chasm, and Henry suddenly knows as easy as breathing that Alex wants to link them together in that risible way that only lovers do. But they’re not that. If there is one inarguable truth in Henry’s world it’s that he knows he and Alex aren’t eachother’s anything other than occasional bed fellows, and to want more is a practice in futility.

Henry doesn’t stop gazing at him as he reaches down to his own cock, is only sorta surprised when Alex swats him away and begins to jerk him off, never tearing his eyes away from Henry and it’s a searing sort of intensity.

“Surprised you came.” Alex tells him.

“Haven’t yet,” Henry retorts, canting his hips upwards right then, catching for release as Alex quickens his pace, using the pre-come for a decent enough lubrication. 

“Don’t be smart.”

“Did you always talk this much?” Henry asks before letting out a moan, eyes squeezed shut as he lets himself get lost in the sensation of Alex’s hand on him, around him, squeezing him as though if he does it hard enough Henry’ll spill all the answers Alex is obviously still waiting on from the funeral.

“Fuck off, you like it when I talk,” Alex sniffs, leaning closer and putting more of his weight on top of Henry as he flicks his wrist that much quicker and Henry clamps his jaw shut as bursts of light sparkle in his vision, and he squirts stream of white against Alex’s hard stomach.

Alex gets up abruptly, padding off to the bathroom and returns with a wet cloth and cleans them both off as adequately as possible. “You don’t like the game, not this way at least. You don’t like competing here.”

“Don’t act as if you know that,” Henry says, bristling at the way Alex thinks he is privy to anything at all about him.

Alex only glares. “I know enough.”

“You know shite.”

And there’s a thousand words going unspoken between them, passing from Alex’s eyes to Henry’s own. Memories of their time together within the past four years, the snippets of conversations they’ve had between the kisses and fucking. It’s like he always just wants to leave Henry breathless and furious. Like he doesn’t even care about how it makes tumultuous waves of regret wash over him every time Henry has to detach himself from him and all the light he brings into Henry’s world.

Henry breaks this no man’s land between them in the only way he can think of. “Where does the boyfriend think you are?”

It gets the appropriate response, Alex getting red and snarling down at where Henry’s still starfished onto the bed. “Stop mentioning Liam.”

“Is he good? All you ever wanted in a partner?”

“Stop acting as if we were ever that!” Alex snaps, face like thunder. “As if you could pull your head out your ass long enough to start understanding that anyone who cares about you doesn’t need to have a fucking ulterior motive!”

Henry sits up now, tries to smooth any of the emotion from his face as he looks steadily at him. “You ought to get going, opening ceremonies begin at eight.”

Alex huffs, tugging on his jeans viscously and buttoning up his shirt with shaking hands. He only stuffs his Calvins into his back pocket. “Yeah whatever, see you on the court Fox.”

“See you then Alexander.”

The door slams shut and Henry feels even worse than he had at the pub.

.-

Rio De Janiro, 2016

The first time Henry lays his eyes on Alexander Claremont Diaz, all he can think is that this boy could probably ruin him if Henry would allow it.

.-

Henry’s breathing is heavy, and he feels flushed and exhausted from the game that ended nearly an hour ago. But he still wills a smile to his face when the bubbly, nondescript journalist beams at him with a microphone and a video camera behind her, capturing the live moment to play in millions of homes around the world. “So everyone’s buzzing about that last move that you communicated amongst your libero and opposite hitter.”

“Was all Pez, he’s the one who made the point.” He tells her, and he can perfectly imagine his Grams’s stiff upper lip at his proclivity to cast any attention away from himself. He knows it makes her life just that bit more difficult for when she’s feigning pride for him in her circle of old money hags. Henry has to actively stop himself from grimacing as he thinks of the disgustingly large billboard presenting his likeness in the center of London, some sort of warped advert for men’s briefs, and decides that should be enough for her. He still can’t believe he’d posed practically nude just to retain her approval.

“For sure,” the journalist crows, and it sounds grading to Henry’s ears. “But people are comparing it to your father’s own win in the 92 olympic games, when he narrowly slammed the final score. ‘S really a wonderful mirror.”

“Well not exactly, eh? Dad was the captain of his team, and thankfully we’ve got Shaan, who’s the driving force for our win this year.” Henry’s beyond thankful when he can wave over the aforementioned hitter and have him join the discussion. It always feels that much easier when his mentor is there to bear some of the weight that comes with the media part of this whole circus. 

“Oi Fox, don’t tell me your boring the dear girl,” he says as he saddles up to them, making the journalist blush to the tips of her ears and leaving it safe for Henry to fall in the backdrop as Shaan efficiently and perfectly counters her questions and charms her enough to make it really more about the win than anything about either of their personal lives.

Henry watches on, amazed. He’d met Shaan when he himself was only a Freshman at the university of Durham. By then Shaan had already been plastered all over the British news cycle once joining the national volleyball league right after graduating himself. He was a bit of a legend, praised for his speed and his agility, all on top of the fact that he was the child of Indian immigrants who didn’t have two pence to rub together when first arriving at their small London row house.

Shaan had been invaluable to Henry when he had first been brought into the sport. He was charismatic and handsome and brilliant, he had always amazed Henry in the tactful way he figured out everyone’s best placements—how to accentuate each other's strengths while minimizing their weaknesses, like a true captain should. But on top of it all— perhaps most wonderfully— Shaan had been completely oblivious to the specter that is Arthur Fox and his three gold wins in his youth, and had only ever regarded Henry as just that. He had only ever seen Henry for who he is and what he can do, never comparing him to his father or intimidated by his mother’s blue blood ancestry. 

Shaan had only let Henry be.

Henry loves Shaan, can’t imagine anyone filling his shoes as captain and can’t imagine doing this without him. That’s why Henry was so utterly shellshocked at the start of the week when Shaan had pulled him aside and told him that he’d be announcing his retirement.

“What?” Henry had blinked, gobsmacked.

Shaan only smiled thinly, cheeks darkening with a blush. “Zhara said yeah.” And he pulls out the picture of him and the American bird he’s been dating for over three years, and they look so achingly happy that it makes Henry sorta sick. Shaan is absolutely preening, one arm slung around her narrow shoulders and a hand resting on the green headscarf she’s got on, while her own hand is demurely pointed to the camera to show off the obscenely large rock lying elegantly on her long, dark finger. They’re a beautiful couple and Henry knew that this was inevitable, but he can’t put together why this means Shaan has to leave Henry and the team in the dust as he rides into the sunset with the White House press secretary.

“She wants some stability, and I reckon she’s got a point,” he favored Henry with another grin right then, as if he couldn’t help it. “Besides I’m thirty now, far past my glory days.”

“You’re still better than most people’s peaks.”

Shaan had tossed back his head right then and laughed handsomely, and Henry pretended his world wasn’t crumbling, pretended that this didn’t practically pave the road to him becoming the new captain and fettering him to this life permanently.

.-

They’re all sitting in a pub now, a mix of their own team with some Americans and Bulgarians and a few other countries. A night of camaraderie that soon turned to a celebration of Shaan and his career. Speculations about his future plans had already leaked to the media, though he had promised Henry that he’d stay around for another year or so with the team. He’d help prepare them for the one/two punch that is the Championship and World cup that proceed their next Olympic Games. Three years of them all meeting back in Japan for this similar dance they’ve all dedicated their lives to.

One of the Americans, a short girl with large brown eyes and the star of David dangling from her neck, raises her glass and says a glowing “To Shaan, who was unanimously voted as the best ass on court for the past three years running.” And everyone else choruses with heartfelt cheers, and Henry thinks that his sounds only slightly resigned.

He’s happy for Shaan, he is. He’s ecstatic. But the implications he’s already made and the obvious next steps make it clear that Henry will be voted in as the next team captain. He’d be the one responsible for another victorious season, and the one responsible to schedule the practices with their coach and the one they all come to for advice. As if Henry isn’t a frantic minded 24 year old who barely knows his head from his arse. And it makes something uncomfortable and terrified squirm in his stomach. The idea that this is it. This is his future, his piece de resistance . No more silly follies of just getting up and leaving this competition and career behind. No more imagining that he could take that English degree from Durham and actually make something of it. No more pretending that he isn’t just a vessel to continue his father’s legacy and please his grandmother’s vanities. 

Henry will be bestowed the position of captain before the year is up, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He studiously pretends that him ordering another logger has nothing to do with the hesitant acceptance of that. 

“You know that we won’t go easy on you guys at the Championship,” another American says— this one Henry vaguely recognizes as being the fastest amongst them and honestly the best looking too. He’s all doe eyes and taught muscles and a cheeky grin that shows off a truly impressive dimple right on the apple of his cheek. He’s gorgeous. “Liam was just frazzled is all, we’ll be better prepared next time.”

“Don’t get cocky, your team is just a bunch of upstarts,” Sphetlana— a Russian girl who had started off around the same time as Henry and who’d become a quick friend simply due to just how rudding gay they both are— says and then declares that they need a new round of shots. 

“On me,” Henry laughs, suddenly thankful to step away from the conversation surrounding the Championship and which countries might have a chance to make an impression (Brazil) and which ones have fallen from grace (China) and which ones are a bunch of stuck up pricks (To Henry’s chagrin that seems to have went to the UK).

“I’ll help,” the attractive American— Claremont-Diaz if Henry remembers correctly— offers, winking down at the brunette from earlier who’s now shamelessly flirting with a keen looking Sphetlana.

“Make it vodka Haz darling,” Pez crows and only cackles when Henry throws him the bird in retort.

“He’s funny,” Alex says as they near the bar, glancing smugly up at Henry. 

“He’s brilliant,” Henry sniffs airily, always a bit more protective towards Pez and his outlandish charisma, especially after last year when his own bloody brother had made a none too kind comment about it, the utter berk. 

“Oh yeah, totally. I follow him on instagram, he’s like a legend.”

“Oi don’t tell’m that, please. His heads already inflated enough as it is.” 

The other boy laughs, and it makes Henry’s insides feel syrupy. “I’m Alex.”

“Henry,” he grins before tipping his head to the barkeep and asks for a round of tequila shots. 

They smile at one another for a moment there before Henry’s phone pins with a text, and he looks down to his screen and sees the three messages by Beatrice that fling everything off orbit.

~Da passed out.

~We’re going to the hospital 

~Get here quick

Henry suddenly can’t feel any of his extremities, can’t take note of the breath stuck in his throat. He only remembers where he is when he feels a strong hand clamp on his shoulder, and he looks up at a chagrined looking Shaan. He must know, he’s as close to Beatrice as Henry.

“Ah, what’s going on,” a third voice— Alex— asks confusedly but Henry doesn’t— can’t— pay him any mind. He only stays staring at Shaan, the older brother he’s always wanted, the only person besides Pez and Beatrice that he trusts with all he has. Well besides Pez, Beatrice, and his Da.

“We need to go.”

Shaan nods sullenly, squeezes his shoulder and guides Henry out to an already waiting taxi and everything is moving in slow motion, like a closing collision playing on the silver screen.

But no, this isn’t a movie. This is real life, and Henry might be losing his fucking father.

.-

Tokio, 2020

The opening ceremonies will never not be a remarkable experience, but it’s Henry’s third time around as a competitor and sixth as a specter. At some point the pomp and circumstance of it all becomes more overwhelming than extravagant, and more suffocating than reinvigorating. But it’s still a beautiful sight, all the colors and smiles and flags that actually have some sort of incoherent unity to it unlike practically every other sphere of global relations.

He can spot from a few meters ahead as Alex and the rest of his team— including bloody Liam— are marching along. Nora’s close behind with a huge smile on her pretty face. She’s cut her curls off since the last time Henry had seen her at the Cup so now her hair falls neatly right beneath her ears. He thinks she looks like one of those tinseltown stars from the silent era, and wishes he could tell her as much, but gathers from an apologetic Sphetlana early this morning that she wants nothing to do with him if he keeps toying around with Alex and his emotions. And Henry can’t really argue, knows that even if they’re both to blame, Nora is a sister in all but blood to Alex; of course she’ll protect him first and foremost. Though he still wishes things could be different, doesn’t fathom how they could ever change.

Pez has to nudge Henry along when their own team begins to promenade through the streets, and he forces a smile as he waves to the crowds, feeling heavy hearted when he remembers that this is the first time his father won’t be watching him in the crowds.

.-

London, 2017 

Beatrice’s arm looped through Henry’s is light and tentative as they step into the reserved ballroom reserved by the FIVB in the swanky hotel in the center of his home city, inviting choice players in the sport to a posh sort of dinner and drinks celebration before they’re all rivals once more next summer during the Championship. Her chestnut waves cascade limply over her shoulders and down her back, and her dark eyes have a certain glassiness to them that Henry’s not accustomed to seeing, made only all the more prominent by the sunken state of her cheekbones and the chalky complexion of her face. She’ll always be beautiful to him, but she’s so lost looking now that it makes Henry ache.

Softly, Henry squeezes her closer and kisses her temple and reminds her that they don’t have to stay for the entire night.

The corners of her mouth tilt up into a small smile and she elbows his side playfully. “And deprive this crowd of London’s most eligible bachelor?” She asks teasingly.

“How do you reckon they’ll react when I tell’m I like cock?” Henry asks against her ear with a sneer, and the laugh she lets out just then is soft and tinkling like the silver bells adorning the garden in their Hampshire estate. It’s the first time Henry’s heard her laugh since their father’s diagnosis and since she was released from the rehab center six weeks ago. And Henry is so blindingly thankful that she’s starting to come back to him, to reclaim her perch as the heroic older sister in all his memories. 

“C’mon berk, there’s a platter of those chocolate biscuits I like towards the back.”

“Aye, suppose you’re due some fattening up you bint,” Henry barbs and isn’t able to duck in time to miss the way she cuffs him on the back of the head.

.-

It’s not long into the night when Henry runs into him at the open bar; he was honestly waiting for it considering all the publicity he’s gotten over the last year as America’s newest heartthrob.

“Henry Fox,” he says in greeting, full lips pouting and eyes intense, and Henry feels his prick stir in his slim cut suit pants, and remembers unbittened how he knew at first sight this bloke could so thoroughly ruin him.

“Alexander Claremont Diaz.”

Alex steps back only slightly, as if he’s wondering whether or not to take the open stool besides him, but it’s only a moment more until he assumes the seat, staring moodily at Henry. “Surprised you’re here.”

Henry quirks a brow, unimpressed. “Mind explaining that reasoning love, lest I think you’re implying I’m over my peak already? Alas, and I’m still so fresh faced.”

Alex rolls back his entire head, as if eyes alone weren’t enough to radiate the pure irritation he obviously feels, and Henry huffs out a small chuckle into his gin and tonic he’s got pressed against his lips. 

“Only that you were in such a hurry to get the fuck out of the bar after you guys won the gold. I just assumed you weren’t much for intermingling with the commoners.”

The slight good mood Henry was basking in was quickly extinguished at the reminder. He slams his drink down perhaps a bit too forcefully but he doesn’t fucking care. “That was personal.”

“Oh—“

“My Da’s sick, got a tumor the size of a golfball lodged in his head.”

Alex’s face drops almost instantaneously, features slackened and paled in concern. “Holy shit, I’m sorry.”

Henry breathes in deep, forces the thoughts of his father— tired and fading— out of his mind, instead peers down at Alex with a fluttering of his spider leg lashes that Beatrice’s always been envious of. “No need for pleasant platitudes Alexander.”

“No, man, listen. I didn’t know. I feel like a shit head.”

“’S fine, no one knows, not really. It’s how he wants it.”

“I won’t say a word.” Alex still looks like he might bite his lip off with regret of his thoughtless words, so Henry reaches over and gently pries his mouth open with his thumb, dragging it along the ravaged skin, slipping it slightly on the inside so that it grazes the back of his cheek just for a breath before folding it back on the countertop over Alex’s own. 

“Look, ’s not like we even knew each other before that five minute conversation last year,” Henry tells him briskly, relaxing when he sees Alex nodding his head— cheeks flushed. “So I reckon it would be better for you to cut the apologies short and make it up to me by proving a decent enough distraction, eh?”

Alex seems to have been stunned silent, thick brows hiked and pretty mouth shaped into an O. “Hah, yeah no. I’m not really— I mean I don’t— I’ve never….”

Henry raises his hand, cutting off his sputtering. “Right, so you and the defense hitter, just mates then?”

Alex’s face goes a very fetching red, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Liam and I— we’re only friends, I mean, yeah we’ve done stuff, but you know— Nothing serious.”

“So you’re not tangled up with anyone else then?”

Alex begins to glare now. “You’re not getting the point.”

“No love, I think if anyone’s obtuse here it’s you. I mean I know I’m pretty, but no straight man has ever gawked at my mouth with as much precision as you right now. And also probably for our entire conversation last year.”

Alex swallows, hard, and Henry knows that he’s caught him. 

“Listen I’m not in the mood to play out some tableau of being some closet case’s secret rendezvous. I’m honestly just looking for a good fuck—“

“What did you have in mind,” Alex asks, breaths staggering and Henry stifles the smirk threatening to break out. 

“Right, well my flat’s in Mayfair.” Alex snorts right then and Henry narrows his eyes at him. “Problem with that?”

“Nah, just sounds about right for your general rich white boy vibes.”

Henry swears to God that if this bloke wasn’t so damn fit he wouldn’t be putting up with any of this bullshit. “Well I’d gladly give you a tour of it if you mind that cheek.”

“Oh, I think you rather like my cheek Fox, or was your gazing at my ass last year just a fluke?”

And oh.

Henry seems to have been right about him. And this is surely the worst fucking decision he’s ever made, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. 

“Grab us a cab Alexander, and I’ll check up on my sister.”

“Whatever you like Fox,” Alex leers, winking at him for good measure, and Henry steadfastly does not stare at his arse as he walks out— even if he’s got on the tightest pair of trousers possible for a bloke. Okay fine, Henry allows himself a solid five seconds of imagining how round and perfect it must be beneath the layers, how pert.

Fuck, this is seriously the dumbest decision in his life.

.-

Henry had caught Beatrice halfway to the door with her own impending one night stand draped all over her, smitten as all get out. Henry recognized him as one of the bloke’s on the administrative side for the FIVB— Auggie whomever— and they had shared surreptitious grins and promises to catch each other up on everything the next day at brunch.

Henry’s thankful that he didn’t have to worry about Beatrice getting home alright, because the moment he and Alexander slide into the taxi, it’s Alex’s plump lips that are crashing against him with such feverish intent that all thoughts of absolutely anything besides the man before him are purged from his mind.

“Jesus you are so sexy.” Alex breathes, hot tendrils skirting against Henry’s lips before Alex yanks him down again by the tie, their mouths smacking together once more. And Henry will never admit to the whimper that he let’s out right then, as his hands frantically palm up and down his muscular back and landing on his fucking glorious ass, squeezing with pure glee as Alex climbs into his lap and mouths hungrily against his neck and along his jaw. “So fucking prim and proper but that smirk.”

Henry’s thoughts are an impending disaster, thoughts of grabbing Alex by his thighs and slamming him down onto the interior of the cab and tearing open his trousers— of thrusting into him with barely any preparation at all, of hearing Alex’s cries of ecstasy. But he’s spared from a court date for public indecency when the taxi slams on the breaks, and he dazedly looks up through the window to find that they’ve arrived.

They’re both frantic as they adjust themselves and Henry leaves a handsome tip to the peeved off looking cabbie and only smiles as diffidently as possible before grappling for Alexander’s hand as they dash off to his flat without any of the ordinary pleasantries he has with the doorman.

“You. Are. A. Sodding. Menace.” Henry all but hisses as he divests Henry of his jacket and bowtie and shirt, punctuating every word with a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, and high on his cheek, and the corner of his mouth, before landing on one final searing kiss against his lips, pouting only slightly when Alex pulls away with a smirk.

“Yeah? and what do you wanna do bout it?” Alex asks smugly, leading Henry by his hand as he walks backwards to the sofa, the both of them collapsing onto it with a slight “oof.” 

“Maybe nothing at all?” Henry says teasingly, his finger tracing the path of the elaborately designed tattoos etched into Alex’s side, stopping when he grabs his hip, his thumb dipping into the waistband of his trousers. “Maybe I should leave you this pent up and keen?”

“Fuck you,” Alex hisses, grabbing harshly at the back of Henry’s head as he pushes him down for another kiss, canting his hips upwards as they lie their for minutes on end, just panting and devouring and rutting up against one another, but Henry’s afraid he might actually fucking come like this— as if he was fifteen again and subjected to closed door make-outs before coming out to all the people that matter in his world. And no, Henry is too keyed up for that for tonight, he wants to fuck Alexander silly. Wants to see the way his lashes flutter when Henry’s jerking him off, wants to see his eyes roll back in his head when Henry thrashes in that exact right breath to hit his prostate, wants him in so many different ways that it’s frightening. But for now he settles for just detangling himself from him, and peering down with delight at Alex’s debauched form, all bruised lips and lazy gaze and the slow, heavy way he has to open his eyes to look up at him.

“Lube’s in my room.”

“Then what are we still doing here?” Alex asks, and it’s the perfect balance of confidence and carefulness and it makes Henry’s knees go weak.

.-

They strip each other from all their clothing as quickly as humanly possible, and Henry feels like he’s floating on cloud nine with Alex beneath him, lying on his stomach, writhing and clenching his ass with every stroke of Henry’s finger— loosening his tight, warm hole. It’s literally the best thing Henry’s ever witnessed, ever could’ve imagined. 

“Jesus you like dragging this shit out, don’t you?” Alex asks, smirk turning to a grimace from where he’s peering up at him over his shoulder when Henry adds his second finger and presses down to his knuckle.

“Impatient aren’t we?”

“Bored if I’m honest,” Alex snarks, bucking forwards when Henry plunges his fingers back in, but Henry prevents him from getting any friction on his dick by an arm snaking around his stomach and lightly holding him up.

“I thought I told you to cut it with the cheek,” Henry whispers, lecherous and soft, as he folds down to nip at his shoulder, and Alex wiggles his arse in reaction, so obviously begging for more.

“God you are such a tease,” Alex moans, cut off only when Henry smacks one of his arse cheeks.

“Oh.”

Henry doesn’t know where that came from, why he did it or what spurred it on precisely, but now looking at the result— the way Alex’s thick arse jiggles for a moment and blushes red— Well it’s a delight. He quickly darts his gaze back up to Alex, relieved to find him flushed in much the same way. 

“Was that— Erm, I mean was that all right?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathes out, voice pitched higher and backside beginning to quench again. “Yeah, yeah that’s good. That’s really good Fox.”

Oh indeed.

“Hmm, good.” Henry says slowly, suddenly determined in getting Alex’s arse the same shade of bright red as his face. 

Gingerly, he moves so that his back is lying against the headboard, and Alex is sprawled over his lap— miles and miles of gorgeous, rich brown skin and wide shoulders tapering off to a narrow waste and his miraculous behind, dimples peeking out right at the small of his back and another array of freckles dusting over the expanse. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Henry has to lick his lips to try and calm himself as his deft fingers skim over the nudges of his spine and back down to this loosened hole. Bloody hell is he delicious in every way imaginable.

“Right, well then. Let me show you what I mean when I tell you to cut out the cheek.”

The first smack is resounding, maybe a bit too harsh, but Alex seems to enjoy it if the choked out whimper and the way he fists his hands into the sheets while he lifts his arse is anything to go by. 

“Again, harder.”

And Henry doesn’t have to be told twice, just moves around a bit so that his prick isn’t literally stabbing Alexander’s belly. Henry raises his hand high, and then smacks it across both cheeks, following up quickly with a third and a fourth and then a fifth, relishing in the whines and groans of pleasure that Alex lets out.

“You’re bloody beautiful Alexander,” Henry very nearly groans, has his hand only collide with one cheek at a time in quick repetition before waiting until the brightness begins to fade to smack down thrice more with nearly all his strength along the width of him. “You know that, don’t you Alexander? Know that you’re gorgeous?”

“Yes,” Alex practically shouts, his head tossed back as he thrusts against Henry’s lap with every slap. “Please don’t stop!”

Ever the dutiful host, Henry doesn’t stop the spanking until he feels the hot stripes of Alex coming spilling all over his lap, and Henry patiently begins to massage his bollocks, waiting for him to ride it out.

“Jesus,” Alex gasps as he rolls over, beautiful and worn out on Henry’s scarlet sheets.

“You’ve made a mess, love,” Henry notes, begins to squeeze one of Alex’s nipples between his ring and pointer fingers. “Not very polite.”

Alex eyes him, playful intent gleaming from the dark depths of them— dark depths Henry wouldn’t mind getting consumed by. “I bet I know a way to apologize?”

“Hmm, is that right?”

.-

Tokio 2020

Henry’s nearly forgotten how lonely competition weeks can be. He’s been consumed by Alex and Alex’s everything-ness for so long that he’s forgotten himself. 

He used to only get an occasional drink with Pez and Sphetlana and the others through the duration of the week, spending the rest of his time with his parents and Beatrice exploring the city where the games were held or celebrating a win as a family or just simply existing together. But that’s impossible now. Now Arthur’s underground and his mother’s not been able to leave her bed for days on end and Beatrice is trying to piece her life back together bit by bit,currently on holiday with Auggie on the coast of Morocco to celebrate their new engagement. Henry feels lost without them. Doesn’t want to call Shaan to hear about his perfect wife and twins and hosting gig on ESPN. He doesn’t want to see the pity in Pez or Sphetlana’s gazes, or the judgment embedded into Nora’s. He especially doesn’t want to see Alexander, not now, not with him outright ignoring Henry in exchange for giving his vapid boyfriend more of his attention. 

It’s killing him but Henry doesn’t have the right to interfere with them. He had his chance with Alex a year ago and six months after that, and both times he was the one to call things off. Alex deserves his chance at happiness, and Henry refuses to be the one to take it away from him.

.-

Their semi finals match against Brazil is absolutely brutal. The crowd’s jeering is completely washed out by the screaming of exhaustion in his muscles and the pounding of adrenaline in his ears, but he can’t focus on that now.

They are at a deadlock tie, two games each, and though Henry’s played for a vast majority of the time, he won’t switch out now, not when it’s so close. He’s the sodding captain, and he won’t let his team down. They deserve the win even if he’s a sham and even if this is the last place he ever wants to be anymore.

The opposing spiker smacks the ball, and Henry jumps as far as he can to repel it, wincing when it is easily deflected by one of those on the defensive line, bumping it to another teammate only to have it spiked back to them, and it’s all a blur if Henry’s being honest. But somehow, remarkably, the game is called, and it’s them against the Americans tomorrow. 

Henry very nearly collapses onto a preening Pez, but they all hurriedly retreat to the showers, and it feels like the one right thing Henry’s done all week.

Rome 2018 

That night with Alex was admittedly life affirming, abso-bloody-lutely miraculous. 

They had exchanged eachother’s Snapchats afterwards while Alex was redressing for his walk of shame that night, but not numbers, Henry thought that’d be too intimate. At least everyone knows what Snaps exchanged by hookups is meant for. And it worked.

The majority of the pictures they sent between one another were of the risqué variety. Ones of Alex’s half hard dick as Henry sent him filthy texts, and others of Henry playing with his own Bollocks, the black bar reading that he wishes he had Alex’s pretty mouth to help out. But surprisingly— at least to Henry— they began to send innocuous, innocent ones too.

Pictures of David playing tug of war with Henry’s boxers, or Beatrice tuning her guitar. Pictures of Alex’s older sister in her frighteningly green face mask or ones of Nora practicing her spikes. And ones of just Alex. Alex smiling while on a boat at his family’s Texan lake house— the key he wears on a chain around his neck glinting in the sunlight. Alex eating dinner or Alex in those impossibly dorky, thick-rimmed specs as he tells Henry about a new novel he’s reading.

And Henry will never admit it, but he keeps that photo of Alex in his glasses and oversized Gryffindor sweatshirt in his vault, to look at on especially rough days when his Grams is scolding him for not taking an advantageous sponsorship, or days when his father can barely walk to the kitchen, or the ones where Beatrice has to hide herself in the music room because she’s afraid it might be the day she tips off the wagon. Henry looks at that ridiculous photo, at Alex’s single cheek dimple, and soft looking curls and the frozen swish of his hand in the midst of speaking, and it brings a thrumming to Henry’s chest— a balance. 

But it’s nothing more than that. 

Henry doesn’t feel any sort of romantic shit for him, hasn’t felt that way towards anyone in years. He’s just a fantastic lay and funny enough bloke. It only makes sense that his photo would help relax Henry’s tense fucking existence.

If they fall into one another the first night at the World Championship, then that’s not for any other reason besides Alex looks marvelous in those white chinos and tight V-neck that shows off his muscles in a delicious way.

.-

“God,” Alex breathes as they finally separate on the bed, both sated and exhausted in the thick, summer heat of Italy. “You’re unreal Fox.”

Henry smirks, slaps down on Alex’s inner thigh cockily. “You haven’t seen anything yet Alexander.”

Alex laughs, and Henry loves the sound of it so much he thinks he could die.

“You think anyone noticed our absence?”

“Humph,” Henry snorts, gets up for a pair of Whiteclaws and wet cloth before the come begins to dry. “You’re not too discrete when you’re looking forward to a good fucking Alexander.” Henry tells him, handing over the glass and towelette. 

“Screw you.”

“If you think you got it in you so soon, sure.” Henry says with a one armed shrug, picks up one of the books he’s piled on the window cell and begins to flip through it casually as he lies back down besides Alex.

“What’s that?”

Henry silently shows him the cover of the book by Oscar Wilde, laughing at the face he pulls. “He’s a literary genius.”

“Nah, I’m sure he is.” Alex says, sitting up fully now. “Just was never much for fiction honestly. I preferred books about politics or someone’s biography or something.”

Henry rolls his eyes, “How drab.”

“I think it makes me nice and educated actually.”

“I think it makes you sound like an unrepentant bore.”

“Oo big words from the pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy with an English degree, Ta so much.”

Alex snorts right then. “Ah I see, it’s a personal attack then, that’s why you’re so affronted.”

“No, I’m affronted because your experience with novels is the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard. Jesus, do you even know a good story if it hit you on the head?”

“You are so angry about this!” Alex guffaws, leaning forwards to kiss Henry, and it’s a bit odd Henry thinks— as if he kissed him simply because he wanted to. But he brushes it off, deciding that Alex’s lack of reading comprehension is far more of a dire situation. 

“I’m lending you my copy of Dorian Gray,” he tells him, brooking no arguments, which only makes it so the corner of Alex’s mouth twitches back up into a grin.

“Is that right? You giving me homework Professor Fox?”

Henry leers down at him, climbing over Alex so that he’s straddling his lap and kissing him nice and thorough. And even though they’ve just gotten done fucking, he can feel Alex and his own dicks beginning to spring to attention.

“If that’s what it takes for you to get cultured.” He says lewdly, kissing down the column of Alex’s neck and circling his hand around the both of them, gently coaxing their dicks to hardness.

“Mmm, yeah,” Alex sighs, bucking up for more friction. “And what? You gonna punish me if I don’t listen? Throw me over your lap again and teach me a real lesson?”

Henry’s wrist flicks quicker, both of them hard and pleading for the rough slide of velvety skin against velvety skin. And maybe Henry should reach over and code himself with some lube, but he likes the slight gruffness, the burn contrasting with the pleasure.

“Maybe if I didn’t know you’d like that so much,” he whispers, dipping down to the juncture of Alex’s neck and shoulder and biting down as he thrashes his hips faster, in rhythm with his hand, and Alex croaks out a pleading, “God yes Henry, do whatever you want to me,” and that’s what brings him over the edge, squeezing his eyes shut as he squirts against Alex’s abs and feels the other boy release in turn.

Henry kisses all over Alex’s face before he deposits himself back besides him, panting heavier than before. Alex curves against him, his head resting on Henry’s chest, but it’s sorta nice, so Henry doesn’t say anything about it, only brings his free hand up to card in Alex’s dark curls.

It feels like an eon that passes before he speaks again, dragging Henry out the hazy daydream he’s in the midst of. “So is that what you were gonna do with it?”

“Pardon?”

Alex rises slightly, enough so his mouth isn’t literally pressed against Henry’s collarbone anymore. “The English degree? Were you going to teach?”

Startled, Henry can only laugh as he shakes his head. “Oh me teaching? Interacting with that many people a day? God no.”

Alex frowns, squinting up at him. “You’d be a fine teacher, simply on the merit that you’re hot. Charm doesn’t really matter much if you can get three chillies on Rate My Professor.”

Henry laughs once more, head shaking. 

“I’m just not built that way I reckon, the ability to create lesson plans and homework objectives and all that rut. Just not for me.”

Alex nods slowly, seeming to grasp his point. “Well then what did you want to become? If you weren’t the world’s like top volleyball player?”

Henry doesn’t even have to think about it before he’s blurting out, “A writer.”

“A writer?” Alex asks, as if he misheard him. “Like your own books? Like you’d wanna be a Fitzgerald or a Hemingway?”

Henry grimaces at the comparison to them, but nods all the same. “Something like that I suppose. I’d like to tell stories, to base them on my own life as a gay man. I’d like to help normalize the idea that love is love is love is love. I think being out there on the front lines would be marvelous.” Henry eyes Alex when he lets out a small giggle right then, apprehensive. “My dreams a joke to you Alexander?”

Quickly schooling his expression to something more serious, Alex shakes his head emphatically, moving so that they’re face to face now. “No of course not Henry. I mean— Just— You just have never sounded that passionate when you speak about volleyball or the chances of other teams or players.”

Henry furrows his brows at him, his turn to be confused. “Yeah, well this’s my job.”

“But you don’t love it.” Alex finishes for him.

“Do you?”

“Yeah, yeah I really fucking do. My mom used to play for her university when she attended UPenn, and she’s the one who introduced me and June to it— My sister I mean.”

“I know who June is, Alexander,” Henry says caustically, irritated that he thought otherwise.

“Ha, well yeah, right. So that’s how we started playing, but June never really liked it much, is a big shot journalist for the Washington Post now. But me, I loved it. Loved it with all I have.”

“And now you’re one of the top players in the world.” Henry says, which makes Alex flush prettily. 

“Yeah, suppose I am.” 

Without thinking, Henry slowly drags his fingers against Alex’s own where his hand is lying between them, and begins knotting and detangling them together. Likes the way he’s touching some part of him, has always liked touching Alex.

“My Da—“

“One of the most famous players in history,” Alex completes with a shrug. “But the way you speak about him, he sounds like an amazing dude.”

“He is,” Henry chuckles, charmed all over again by Alex.

“So do you think he’d really care if you were playing professionally or not?” 

“He doesn’t,” Henry is quick to defend his father from any sort of unfavorable critiques. “He’s the only one in the family who really understands that it’s just a job for me. Mum’s just always told me that I can do whatever I like and Grams expects that I achieve some level of greatness to help excuse the fact that I’m something as common as an athlete— hates how it stains the Mountchristen name.”

“Then why continue to play?” Alex asks, miffed as all get out, but Henry doesn’t really have an answer for him.

“Da doesn’t have long left, doctors think he’s lucky if he’ll survive till the next Olympics.” He says in as strong of a voice he could muster, knowing that it still comes out tenuous and pitiful to his own ears. “I’d like to make him proud of me before he goes. And I know he says that me following in his footsteps isn’t a requirement, but God. He’s so happy whenever he sees me play, so prideful. And I’d like to keep that up for him, for as long as possible.”

Alex’s face has dropped, and he nods sullenly, understanding glittering in the dark pools of his gaze. “Fair, I just want to see you happy with what you’re doing in life. I bet that’d make him proud.”

Henry can feel his heart thudding out an uneven staccato, and he’s not sure if it’s from his despair over his father’s diagnosis, or by the increasingly lovely way Alex looks in the dying evening light, but either option isn’t safe, so he drags himself away from him, feigning a grin.

“I’m gay, mate, that’s literally the definition of happy.” Alex doesn’t laugh and Henry doesn’t blame him, knows that the jibe came out weak. “Imma take a quick shower before bed, but keep the book, yeah? Enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” Alex says with a small smile of his own, one that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Thanks Fox.”

“Just don’t get any undue stains on the pages when you eventually get horny over the brilliance.”

“Psh, you like it when I’m horny.” Henry doesn’t argue, kisses him instead. “You think I’ll ever get horny over your shit?”

“Didn’t think you liked water sports Alexander,” Henry says, purposefully evasive, and wincing when Alex smacks his shoulder. 

“I mean your own book one day fuck face.”

“Would it be terribly overdone if I mentioned how much you like fucking my face?” He asks.

“Not as overdone as you avoiding the question at hand.” Alex retorts shortly.

“You know Wilde wrote once that one can enjoy reading far too much to actually write themselves.”

Alex scoffs. “I know you’ve written something.”

“Maybe,” Henry says.

“Well I’d be honored to read it one day,” Alex tells him, guileless and open and so tenderly that it makes something disarmingly warm uncoil in Henry’s deepest recesses.

“Oh— Well maybe that can be arranged?”

“I’d like that,” Alex smiles, moving to push him off the mattress and command him to take a shower before the stench clings onto his skin for an eternity. And Henry doesn’t really know anything anymore.

.-

Tokyo 2020

Once the team freshens up after winning the semi-finals match, Pez tells him that they and the Americans want to grab a pint in the city, “A bit of camaraderie before we utterly ravage each other tomorrow morning.”

Henry smiles thinly at him, turning down the offer in as blasé way as he can, as if Pez couldn’t read him like a book that’s been highlighted and underlined to hell. “You need to face’m sooner or later darling.”

“Yeah, but not tonight.”

“All right,” Pez clamps his shoulder and squeezes a tad too tightly to be comforting and Henry is able to retreat upstairs to his room. Order himself some dinner to be sent up and change into one of the obscenely fluffy robes they offer. Maybe he’ll read one of the newest novels he’s bought in anticipation for this week before he takes a light kip. Finish off the night by reviewing the tactics practiced by the Americans before the game tomorrow.

What Henry doesn’t expect to find once he gets upstairs is a pair of messages from Alex of all fucking people, messages that make Henry’s heart lodge into his throat and make him want to throw something against the wall so it’ll break.

You did good Fox

still don’t get why you’re even playing, but you did good.

And it’s only instinct when Henry slides his gaze upwards to the final message Alex had sent him right after leaving the funeral, a single line in response to a screen-grab he had taken of the writings Henry jots down in a mess of a file that he pretends will ever amount to anything. A file only ever shared to Alex and his father in the midst of those final fleeting weeks of his life when Henry would’ve given him the moon if only his Da had asked.

you love him and you feel it in your bones and it’s eating you from the inside like a coiled snake ready to prey on your heart  
And you look at him, at his smile that’s beautiful but bloody, brilliant but broken, at how his teeth gleam white and his tongue slips out like a pitch fork doused in honey   
and he tells you “Oh darling, oh dummy, oh silly, silly fool. What do you know of love. Your father’s great failure and Mother’s hideous sack of sadness.”  
And you want to kiss him, to kiss away the blood and honey and you don’t know if it’s from your lips that his stain red but you don’t care because you are sorry and he knows you are nothing 

Alex had only written a simple question but it was enough to tilt everything Henry’s ever known.

I don’t know who you hate more, me or yourself.

Damn it.

Henry shouldn’t have looked, he’s made a fucking mistake, he doesn’t want the memories of the night he had written this, the night of his father’s wake. Right after Alex had fucked him for the first time and Henry felt cracked open with so many emotions he’s never deigned to let himself feel, and now that night and those feelings are bubbling back to the forefront of his memories and it makes Henry feel ill, like a lead weight has just been branded on his heart.

Slowly, Henry turns off his phone, throws it hard enough against the wall so that he hears a crack, and then he hides beneath the covers again as if he were a seven year old boy and Philip was telling him scary stories about the old witch who lived in their cupboards and he needed Beatrice or Da to come rescue him. 

No one can rescue him now, and Henry feels worse than he ever has before.

.-

Hiroshima 2019

After that night in the hotel room last year, there’s been a minuscule but painstakingly obvious difference in Henry and Alex’s relationship. Henry can’t describe it if he was forced to, but it squirms right beneath his skin in an unnerving sort of way. A way that makes every Snap sent between them feels like the first breaths of spring in the gray skies of London. A way that forces them to pretend that them purposefully overlapping their schedules to meet every month or so for a good pint and even better fucking is completely normal and innocent. A way that ensures Henry smiles the widest when he’s speaking to Alex and Alex alone.

But it’s fine.

It’s normal.

It’s not like they’re falling into a relationship or something trite like that. It’s not like it’s much of anything at all. They just have an understanding, an invisible string connecting them that is in no way romantic.

And if Alex one February night sends Henry the Wilde line “Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there is something tragic,” and they spiral into a three hour long conversation about that alone— well that’s nothing.

It’s just a more elevated version of friends with benefits. Which is good. Henry doesn’t have time for a full blown relationship. He has his sport and his father to worry about. And so what if Alex is beautiful and cheeky and smart as hell. That doesn’t mean that he wants to call Henry his boyfriend or partner or lover. There’s no way.

.-

Henry starts to suspect that Alex may not be on the same page when their first night at the World Cup Alex only kisses Henry tenderly, and doesn’t even try to fondle him when they’re in the same bed. Instead tells him that he’s tired, and Henry only nods, complying with the silent request to keep it low key for tonight. And they mostly just lie there while Henry jerks the pair of them off at once. And they fall asleep in a mess of tangled limbs and sheets and Henry is only sorta, slightly afraid of what this means.

In fact he’s distracted enough by it that his team loses to fucking Finland, (FUCKING FINLAND), on the second round of the Championship.

Holy fuck.

It’s obvious that America will win tomorrow, and Henry is happy for Alex, but he just wishes he could get a good feel on him, could figure out what Alex thinks about this whole arrangement. And Henry’s never been the most tactful of blokes, so he just blurts it out that night, when he takes Alex out for sushi in congratulations for his impending win. He just asks him in the middle of the restaurant, wide eyes not meeting Alex’s own and hands toying with the chopsticks idly. “What is this?”

Alex freezes mid-chew, squinting at Henry suspiciously. “Food?”

Henry glares at him now. “NO prat, what is this. You and I. What are we?”

Alex hikes up his brows in understanding, lips pursed, and then shrugs with inhibition. “Dunno,” he says in an inscrutable sort of tone. “Didn’t that Wilde dude you made me read say that defining shit is stifling?”

“Limiting,” Henry corrects lightly. “But I just wanted to ensure that we’re on the same, erm, page.”

“Oh?” Alex asks now, looking at him shrewdly. “And what’s that page Fox?”

Henry feels very much like a rabbit about to be eaten by a very spiteful hound, but he forges on, tentative. “Friends who occasionally fuck.”

Alex’s expression doesn’t change, but Henry still feels as if he’s said the wrong thing, God help him.

“I’d say we’d do it more often than occasionally, yeah?”

Henry reddens, averts his gaze once more. “We’re good at it.”

“Yeah, really good.” Alex intones, and Henry wishes he’d just give Henry a clue into what he’s thinking. “And friends who talk about random shit for hours on end.”

“I do that with Pez and Lana too.”

“Alright, well what about friends who share super private and super remarkable and super invasive pieces of writing that they have jotted down for close to a decade on a file that they’re too chickenshit to make into anything real, right after sending a artful selfie of his junk?”

Henry suddenly feels cold all over, and would like to do-nothing more than punch Alex straight in the face. “Sod off.”

“Listen Henry,” Alex says, scrambling to stand up so that he can catch him on the cuff of his jacket. “I’m sorry, okay.”

“You’re a fucking bastard.”

“I’m sorry! Alright!” Alex all but yells, eyes going askance around the other patrons looking at them peculiarly, so he shuffles in his pocket for a few notes and then drags Henry outdoors to the alleyway. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, you got your intention plenty clear to me, Alexander,” Henry snarls, tearing his arm away from him and glaring with all the heat he can muster. “You’re a fucking berk.”

“You’re the one who tried breaking up with me!” Alex shouted, affronted.

“Oi, what do you mean breaking up, we’d have to be something for me to break up with you!”

Henry definitely said the wrong thing, because Alex’s face snaps shut— absolutely blank in ways he’s never seen.

“Right, alright, okay.”

“Wait, Alexander.”

“No it’s fine, I get it, you’re a fucking bastard. You don’t have time for anything that actually makes you happy.”

“I’m happy!” Henry bellows, feels a rush of indignant defense surging through him. 

“Yeah, following your Grandma’s instructions like a proper bitch is making you real happy isn’t it Fox?”

Henry leaps forwards so quickly that Alex sways backwards, but he’s undeterred, gazing up at Henry with derision. “Your dad knows you’re not meant to be on a court, knows you want to write, but you’re too much of a coward.”

“Fuck you.”

Alex laughs cruelly right then, shaking his head snidely. “Yeah I don’t think so.”

Calm as all get out, Alex shoulders past him and retreats back to the hotel, and Henry absolutely hates everything.

.-

The next time they had seen one another, Alex had stopped by Henry’s suite after America won gold, only to be met by the naked body of the eager opposite hitter who always flirted with Henry in an obscene sort of way when Alex was around—Oliver— and Henry smoking a cigarette in bed. The glance leveled between them made it clear that Henry had effectively burned the bridge between Alex and him, and it was only sorta earth-shattering.

.-

Tokyo 2020

Henry doesn’t sleep that entire night. He only alternates from fitful turning in the blankets to mindless scrolling on instagram to needing to suddenly see Alex, to talk to him, to kiss all over his heavenly face.

He never musters up the courage.

He decides to start his day around six in the morning, finding it pointless to try and get some sleep even if he’s bloody exhausted. Though, Henry is surprised that when he orders a breakfast platter to his suite, the employee also hands over a package addressed to him and sent by Beatrice. He has no idea what this could be; she’s never sent him something on final match days before.

Befuddled, he just picks up his phone and thumbs open facetime, not caring that it’s near midnight by her.

“Hallo my beautiful baby brother,” she chirps once the tone clicks off and it’s her face that’s covering the majority of the screen.

“What did you do?” He asks without preamble, swinging the box around just for good measure.

“Oi, why don’t you ask your dear older sister bout her trip, eh? Or least tell me about how you’re feeling facing the Americans for the gold, though I think it’s a bit poetic, innit? You playing against that cutie you pretend you don’t even like.”

“You’re the reason I have gray hairs,” he deadpans, wrinkling his nose at her when Beatrice sticks out her tongue in retaliation. 

“Well Auggie agrees with me, and imma have myself a legion of sprogs just so we can all fight against you.”

Henry snorts, “Please, as if your kids wouldn’t be mad about me and throw a mutiny.”

“Only because you’ll spoil them rotten,” Beatrice sniffs airily and Henry rolls his eyes, not sure how their conversation turned off the rails so thoroughly.

“Right, well mind explaining this or shall I just leave it to gather dust?”

It’s almost immediate how Beatrice’s face sobers and she’s lost all the humor from before, and Henry knows what she’s going to say before she even parts her lips. “’S from Da.”

Henry’s stomach drops, knowing and hearing something being two completely different sensations. “Oh— I thought the trust and all that rubbish didn’t kick in till we’re older?”

“Yeah, that’s true, but this’s something else. A gift he told me to hand over during the Olympics this year. Apparently it’s vital so I’ve had the hotel holding onto it all week till I gave my go ahead.”

Henry suddenly feels sick with the prospects of the gift, is suddenly terrified that this might be his father’s own gold metal inside. Proving once and for all that he’s always wanted Henry to be more like him, to make him boastful that Henry’s his son.

“Call me once you’ve opened it, yeah? I’ll talk it out with you, whatever it is.”

Henry swallows down the lump in his throat, and nods silently. He’s thankful for the slight smile she gives him right then and the kiss she blows through the screen. 

The line cuts out.

Henry’s hands are quivering as he picks up a knife from the minuscule kitchen, and runs it down the taped center, opening it slowly. Though he’s beyond confused when he reaches down and all he finds is a book— one he’s never seen before. There’s no title but the spine reads a bold, Henry Fox, in golden lettering against the black backdrop, and when he opens it up it’s like a punch to the gut.

Dedication to my brilliant son.  
James Baldwin once said that you write to change the world.  
I hope you begin to change it yourself with your words even if I won’t be here to see it   
I love you with all of me laddy  
Da

Henry’s throat closes up and the room is washed away with salty tears and a bone aching sort of regret.

.-

London, 2020

The wake is a quiet, small affair. Limited only to family and close friends unlike the memorial in a few days where all his thousands of fans will make the pilgrimage to pay their respects to Arthur Fox. And the idea makes Henry sick, absolutely repulsed. As if any of them know him beyond a bloke who knew how to spike a ball. As if they have the nerve to act as if he meant as much to them as the people who actually knew him, as much as he did to fucking Henry— his sodding son.

Arthur had been moved to hospice care only two weeks ago, and now he’s six feet under and Henry wants to punch a wall, wants to scream his throat to ribbons. He wants to do something, anything, but all he knows is that he can’t stay in this room filled with mourners in black and his broken faced mother and Beatrice pretending that she’s at all fucking put together, like Philip or some shite.

And suddenly everything makes him angry, from the way his mother can’t pull her face out of her handkerchief, to how Philip is pretending to be a strong shoulder for the family, to Beatrice who’s shaking like all she wants is a drink but won’t, as if she’s not still the same girl who got those garish tattoos of stars on her wrist just because she was high off some cocktail of Vodka and pills and she’s always been bombastic and rebellious and has never cared what anyone’s thought of her, what anyone’s expected. And Henry is so seethingly jealous and so spitefully hateful that he can’t even bare to look at her. 

“I need a fag,” he tells his family before straightening up and swaggering off to the outside garden behind the church. He’s never felt so lost, and he’s never wanted to talk to Alex so much in his life. Jesus, he’s thinking about him so much that he is beginning to picture him in all his likeness. Can see his warm gaze and soft looking curls and gentle hands that reach forwards to pluck the cigarette from his mouth for a drag of his own. And fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is Alex. Alex is here. Alex isn’t some pitiful fragment of his imagination. He’s here in front of Henry and looking at him with sorrowful eyes and Henry can move forwards and feel his lips against his own and suddenly that’s the only salvation he needs.

“How did you know?”

“Pez called, and I got the first available redeye.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I think I would’ve liked to meet your father.”

“He would’ve loved you,” Henry tells him, the words— uninhibited and true— hang between them like a promise. And Henry knows that it’s true. Alex is electric and vivacious and charismatic and Arthur would’ve seen and adored it. Arthur would’ve begged Henry to marry the bloke already so he could be there for the wedding. 

There’s a painful lump in Henry’s throat now, thinking about the words his father never gets to say, and all he knows, all he can do is flutter forwards and kiss Alex with all the yearning and apology and wanting he’s always felt for him.

Gingerly— always so damn careful right before they begin— Alex asks him if he’s sure.

“Fuck me,” Henry asks with one of his softer tones, his hands fisted in the material of his suit jacket and surging forwards for another kiss. “Please Alex, please.”

A flash like surprise passes Alex’s face, but then it passes and he’s nodding with intent, holding Henry’s face with tender hands and kissing him in an infuriatingly soft way, and Henry feels grounded for the first time in the past month.

.-

It’s a sardonic sort of parallelism when they end up back in Henry’s flat, dressed in a similar fashion to that first night, over three years ago now. So similar but so drastically different too.

That night of the dinner felt like an exciting beginning, but Henry knows it in his bones— in the very center of him— that this right now, this one night— is a closing. Henry needs to refocus on the game, to carry his father’s legacy. And he can’t do that if he’s still lost in Alexander. So this will be the final time, the last piece of forever that Henry can spare before he returns to the real world.

He tries not hating the idea of it so acutely, but it’s so difficult when Alex sheds off his shirt and reveals all that corded muscle. Or when Alex kisses that point right behind Henry’s ear that always makes him squirm. Or even just when they look into one another’s eyes— chestnut brown boring into cornflower blue— But Henry has to stand his ground, needs to reclaim his sanity after so many months of reckless abandon with this boy.

“What do you want,” Alex asks, voice low as he nips down to the hinge of Henry’s jaw and slides his hand to caress Henry’s arse that’s only protected by a thin layer of cotton.

“I told you, fuck me Alexander.” Henry all but pleas, latching their mouths back up against one another and collapsing backwards onto his bed.

“Mmm, right,” Alex breathes out a bit shakily, pupils going blown right when Henry writhes upwards imploringly and leaves sloppy mouthed kisses over his chest and shoulders as Alex reaches over to the nightstand for the lube found there.

“Don’t be gentle,” Henry tells him, at the edge of begging but he doesn’t care; he needs this. He needs to not feel in his body anymore, needs to get lost in the clouds and forget this whole rudding world except for Alex and the ways Alex can make him feel. And if this is the last time they’ll ever fuck, Henry’s rinsing every drop of experience he can.

Alex only swallows in response, nodding with enough understanding in his gaze that Henry feels like he might comprehend his words without Henry ever speaking them out loud.

“Thank you,” Henry says, mesmerized by how Alex cloaks his fingers with the lube, circling in a sensuous sort of way.

“Don’t be ridiculous, as if this isn’t a pleasure,” Alex scolds with no heat, leaning forwards now to kiss Henry with the tenderness Henry usually doesn’t permit, but he does now. He wants it all before he gets none of it. Though he is surprised that when they part and he starts to turn over to get on all fours, Alex is the one who presses him down by the chest and shakes his head. “I wanna see you when I fuck you. Wanna see your face.”

Henry’s cheeks go blazing, but it’s suddenly the most arousing thing he’s ever heard, and nods readily as he picks up one of the half dozen pillows strewing his large bed, and lodges it beneath him so that there’s a better angle for Alexander to fuck him into oblivion.

“’S going to be tighter this way, you’re okay with that?” Alex asks, single brow cocked.

“Yes,” Henry breathes now, ready to begin to fucking beg as if he’s seeking for guidance by a prophet, and he pretends that when Alexander leans forwards for one more snog, that it doesn’t feel like a benediction, especially when in the midst of it Alex slips in one of his fingers into Henry’s entrance and brushes up his prostate almost immediately, as if he’s attuned to Henry’s very soul.

Alex distracts him by thumbing small circles into Henry’s cheek, and then adds a second finger inside, this time making Henry wince at the intrusion, but the longer he flicks inside of him the longer it feels like Henry’s sodding ribcage has just been shattered open and everything he’s ever wanted to scream out is pulsing in his skin, tattooing itself onto Alex’s body by mere proximity and it feels like Henry’s just entered another plane of existence as he grabs for Henry’s shoulders tightly and peppers his face with kisses as he begs him to press inside, to give Henry all of his length and girth and power. As he begs to have him completely, just this once, to help Henry forget about this entire world.

“Henry— sweetheart, I don’t think—“

“Alexander please,” Henry says, practically whining as he thrusts down to try and impale himself with Alex’s fingers, but it’s not enough, not nearly what Henry wants. And though Alex looks apprehensive and a bit concerned, he just nods, parting away from him, and rubbing another coat of the clear lube along his shaft and Henry swallows the sight of it with hungry piety.

“Tell me if it hurts?” Alex instructs, both his hands on either side of Henry’s face as the blunt tip of his cock drags against Henry’s tight hole, and Henry nods vigorously, his hands on the back of his knees to hold his legs up to give Alex a better angle.

“Imma need it to be verbal, sweetheart.” Alex instructs, pressing inside of Henry in such a light and deliberately excruciating way that it makes Henry want to sob.

“Yes! God damn it Alexander, yes! And don’t you dare go easy on me! I told you—“ 

Henry can’t finish because right then Alex thrashes forwards all at once, getting half way into Henry and making him scream out in pure pleasure. 

“What was that?” He asks smugly, pulling out only to thrust back in without waiting for Henry to collect himself, bottoming out on the third time and just staying inside of Henry for a minute, kissing his collarbone and flicking his nipple, and this is exactly what Henry needed, exactly what he wants.

“Please, please continue,” he breathes out, lost in the sensation of it, of him. Alex only smirks down, hitching up and taking Henry with him as he twists Henry’s ankles behind his back.

“Hold on tight.”

Henry almost asks him what he means, but it’s answered well enough when Alex pulls out and then immediately snaps back inside, pounding into Henry with a vengeful sort of greed and yes, yes, fuck yes. This is what Henry needs, and he’s reminded of it with every brushing to his prostate by Alex’s cock chorusing with the way his head hits the bed post— and it’s a delicious cocktail of feeling.

“So fucking beautiful baby,” Alex mutters low and filthy into his ear when he slams down for an especially hard thrust and Henry begins to feel completely out of it, like he was watching the scene— watching himself being skewered like a piece of meat— from above, and it’s brilliant.

Alex turns a bit to get that much more deeper into Henry’s prostate, kissing Henry’s ankle before plunging forwards and that’s what does it for Henry, what makes him arch back in ecstasy, waves of pleasure pulsing through him. And he thinks he can get hard all over again just be the sight of Alex still fucking into him, chasing his pleasure and using Henry like a rag doll, a tool for his own gain. God he’s so hot.

It’s not long before a few graceless thrusts tell Henry that Alex’s about to come, and he hooks his legs around him that much tighter, wants to feel Alexander relate himself within Henry, wants every part of him before saying goodbye.

“Jesus,” Alex groans as he finally finishes and snuggles into Henry’s embrace.

“Thank you,” Henry tells him again, expecting the way Alex shoulder checks him in response. It’s a peaceful moment, a quiet one. Henry thinks that he can just fall asleep like this, pressed along Alex’s back and losing himself in the smell of him before he has to say goodbye.

.-

Tokyo 2020

Henry never gets to call Beatrice after opening up the gift.

He spends the entirety of the morning flipping through the pages, reading the small comments left by his father, and the ones from Alex he had transferred over, and it is so beyond strange, but so glorious, and Henry can’t believe how much he misses his father now, how much he wishes he had believed his words when he was still living.

But maybe it’s not too late—maybe Henry can actually chase that ever elusive happiness.

.-

When Henry steps out onto the court, his gaze immediately locks onto Alex’s, like a pair of magnets, and they only stare for that excruciating minute before a whistle is blown, and they all have to get in positions.

The Americans have replaced two of their wing hitters and seem to have really focussed on their unity since the last Olympics. They’re playing fiercer, more precise. The only time the UK is able to get an easy shot is when Henry glares directly at a furious faced Liam, and Pez scores effortlessly.

Alex is as miraculous as ever on the court, jumping higher than Henry’s ever seen before when he spikes and never getting distracted by Henry once. It’s impressive but hurts like hell, as if Alex has really just cut him out his life completely. Fuck, even the thought of that makes Henry feel like he’s going to vomit. Alex can’t, not after Henry’s finally realized what he wants and finally knows how to achieve it. Alex can’t give up on him already, not now, not after all they’ve been through.

By the end of the game, it’s the Americans winning the gold, and Henry’s not surprised at all. Alex was brilliant out there, quick with his spikes and effortless with setting and so bloody deadly when it came to defending their hits. And Henry loves him; he knows that now to his core, and he isn’t afraid of the implications any more.

.-

Henry dresses in his favorite button-up and slacks that night when they go to celebrate the end of an impressive season and welcome a year of relaxed training.

Henry’s only slightly surprised when he steps inside and spots Sphetlana waving him over to her and Nora, a drink for him already in hand. “Nice showing for your first year as captain,” Sphetlana chortles, kissing him messily on the cheek, and never loosening the hand Nora’s got interlocked with her own.

“Thanks love,” he tells her kindly, peering down at a remote looking Nora and smiling shyly. 

“You look ravishing.”

“Don’t try to flatter me Fox,” she sniffs, but there’s a softness to her mouth that Henry hasn’t seen in a while, and he’s so fucking thankful he could cry.

“I mean it.”

Nora snorts right then, punching his arm with probably more force than needed, but it feels like she might be forgiving him so Henry won’t complain.

Though it’s not ten minutes later when he sees Alex retreating from a group of tipsy athletes towards the corner and sneak off to the veranda, and it’s like his heart is trying to leap right out his chest to follow him.

“He and Liam split up.” Nora says, and Henry jerks back at the non-sequitur, gawking at her to figure out if she’s just pulling his leg or not. “He was a rebound,” she explains with a slight shrug, blank face quickly turning apprehensive when she stares at Henry for too long, and he feels guilty all over again.

“I love him, Nora.” Henry tells her, in barely above a whisper, shocked when all she does is scoff.

“Yeah dumb ass I know that, but still. If you hurt him ever again. If he ever looks like he did after coming back from your place last January, I swear to fucking God I will beat you to a pulp.”

Sphetlana giggles right then, kissing Nora’s cheek adoringly. “She means it too. She’s a blackbelt in jujitsu.”

Henry smiles at both of them as he begins to walk towards Alexander, to do what he should’ve done the first day he ever met him. “Yeah, I believe that. I’ll never hurt him again. Never.”

Nora nods at him, once and jerky, but he supposes that’s as much approval as she’ll ever offer. Besides, there are more pressing issues to be taking care of at the moment.

.-

Alex is standing between two flowerpots, surrounded in a swirl of starlight and sunflowers and looks like something from a fairytale come to life, and it’s like Henry can’t even breathe when he just blurts out, “I love you.”

“What?” Alex asks, face pinched and single brow cocked in such a familiar way that it makes Henry want to fold down in repentance. 

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I heard that part.” Alex says, still looking like he’d wish for nothing more than to retreat. “What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t just wait around for you okay, and I know I was an idiot that first night but—“

“It means nothing if you don’t want it to,” Henry tells him, and Alex looks even more suspicious. 

“Is that right?”

Henry shrugs, helpless. “I love you, everyone knows that; my bloody father even knew it before I could pull my head out my arse and admit it out loud.” Alex looks shocked but Henry continues to plow on, doesn’t want to miss his opportunity yet again. “I love you and I hate playing professionally and I’m quitting.”

This time Alex’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out his sockets. “You’re quitting!”

“I told my agent and Shaan and then told Pez he’ll probably be tapped as the next captain, but yeah, I’m quitting. This sodding sport has already made me lose you, and I’m not gonna let it take anything else important away from me.”

They both just gaze at each other now, and Henry thinks he might’ve actually said too much, feels his heart twist up with pain. “Right, all right. Well I just wanted to tell you as much so.” Henry begins to turn around, but is stopped by Alex’s soft grasp around his wrist and large, intelligent eyes— bright even in the dark.

“You haven’t lost me, prick.”

“Really?” Henry says, letting out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was still holding, and feels such raw affection when Alex darts his gaze down and back up again quickly.

“You’ve got a lot of shit to explain, and work on. But you haven’t lost me,” He says that latter half as he presses closer, kissing Henry in the gentlest, most earnestly besotted way he’s ever felt, and Henry feels the warmth blossoming in his chest as he cups his hand around Alex’s face and kisses that bit deeper. Feeling like it can be the start of the slice of forever for them. A forever painted of sunlit days and laughter soaked nights. A forever where Henry can write down all the pretty little follies he thinks up about Alex— mostly in relation with him— and maybe even publish them. A forever where Alex eventually retires from the game, maybe takes up a cohosting gig with Shaan. A forever that feels like all the brilliant things waxed about in stories of once upon a time, and he can hardly believe he’s getting his happily ever after with the boy of his dreams.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so endlessly for reading this!!! I hope you don’t hate me Beth!!! I love you okay! I’m a kitty okay! Moooo!Remember this! God damn it!!!! fjlkasdjgoaieg
> 
> It would mean all the galaxy and stars to me if you left a comment below letting me know what you guys thought reading this!<3 <3 
> 
> Come chat with me on my [Tumblr](http://LupinMoons.tumblr.com)


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